


brought it straight to life

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, COVID-19, Choking, D/s, Dirty Talk, Future Fic, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, M/M, Masturbation, OT5 fic - Freeform, Prokopenko (Raven Cycle) Lives, Quarantine and Chill, Rough Sex, Undernegotiated Kink, joseph kavinsky's intimacy kink, mentions of recreational drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: Kreallydoesn't take well to the whole 'quarantine' thing.(AKA, Jiang and K are sheltering-in-place in K's apartment, they argue, and then they make up. With sexy results.)
Relationships: Implied Jiang/Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko/Skov/Swan, Jiang/Joseph Kavinsky
Comments: 11
Kudos: 74





	brought it straight to life

**Author's Note:**

> It's been weeks, I am losing my mind, have some porn. Please comment and give me some human interaction.

_ sitting out dances on the wall _

_ trying to forget everything that isn’t you.  _

_ *** _

“You’re fucking annoying the shit out of me.” Jiang said bluntly, not looking up from the screen of either of his open laptops, an AirPod in one ear and a bowl of oatmeal in his lap. He was the only one in the world, with the possible exception of Ronan Lynch, who would speak so to Joseph Kavinsky, no longer a seventeen-year-old megalomaniac but still sharp as broken glass. 

K paused, standing in boxer shorts and nothing else, from where he had been hurling a tennis ball at the wall and then catching it again, with mixed results. He’d never been a particularly-coordinated person, and was certainly not a former jock like Jiang. And Skov. And Proko. And Swan. 

“Put that shit up then, let’s smoke a bowl.” K retorted, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, all thinly-veiled hyperactivity and menace. 

Jiang rolled his eyes, all holier than thou, like he couldn’t  _ believe  _ K would be so stupid. Like he thought he was better than K, somehow. 

“I have a conference call in fifteen minutes with Seoul and projections due at noon. Entertain yourself.” He put the other AirPod in and went back to typing, listening to some bullshit and working on some bullshit and acting like being quarantined here with K was the worst fucking fate imaginable. 

Jiang had been passing through town, when the shelter-in-place order came through. He hadn’t signed up for this. 

K snarled as he stomped off, flinging the tennis ball one last time over his shoulder and grinning with all his teeth when he heard glass shattering behind him. 

***

“Hello?” A rich Virginia-accented voice said through the speaker of the burner phone K had found taped beneath the coffee table, no doubt placed there in one of Proko’s more paranoid moods. For a forgery with no real experience in The Life, Ilya Prokopenko was a wily motherfucker with escape plan on escape plan on escape plan. K had long since grown used to the handgun Proko kept tucked beneath his pillow like a good luck charm. “Hello?” The voice asked again, bordering on inconvenienced annoyance, like a soccer mom having to wait an extra two minutes in line at a Starbucks before picking up her 2.5 children at school. 

“So like, that  _ hair.  _ Do you use hairspray? Mousse? Gel?” K said, startling from his reverie. “Lynch’s spunk? How the fuck?” 

_ “Kavinsky.”  _ Dick said the name like a curse, or perhaps the name of some particularly-wretched terrorist organization. Like there was nothing worse. Actually, it made K kind of hard. He’d like to get Dick to repeat himself so he could record it, put it on repeat, jerk off to it, maybe make a video and send it to Parrish, or Dick’s senator MILF mommy. Mrs. Dick Sr. Or would it be Mrs. Dick Jr. ? If Dick was the Third, illustrious and so WASPy it was kind of physically painful to look at him straight-on, would that make his father, though technically a senior, Dick Junior? 

“Dicky, Dicky, Dicky.” K purred obnoxiously, and adjusted himself in his borrowed sweatpants. They were Jiang’s, and while they  _ technically  _ fit, they were kind of off in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “You staying healthy? Keeping clean?” To his dismay, K’s voice was edging a little too close to  _ desperate  _ for his own comfort. Before Dick could reply, he hung up and then threw the phone down on the floor, stomping on it a few times, and then a few more because he liked the crunch the plastic made against the hardwood. 

He needed a smoke. Or maybe a dream. 

***

_ Yeah, fuck, take that fucking cock  _ the big oiled-up guy on the television grunted, overly-exaggerated, face going bright red as he pumped into the shrieking blonde beneath him, her long fake fingernails digging into his ass along with the stiletto heels of her matching pink Pleasers. She was kind of wheezing. Neither of them had any hair on their entire bodies besides their eyebrows and the hair on their heads. It was kind of really horrendous. What was the goddamn point of being able to watch porn on your TV without worrying about being overheard by your parents (not that K knew anything about  _ that,  _ per se) if it was shitty porn? 

K groaned, so bored that it felt like a whole fucking swarm of bees was under his skin, buzzing, saying  _ run run run.  _ Onscreen, another guy showed up, just as oily and red and musclebound as the first. There was some meaningless dialog about the second guy being the girl’s husband, and then they were  _ both  _ fucking her. K was pretty sure they both had pec implants. 

He sighed noisily and stuck his hand in his pants, jerking off with a grimace.  _ Ooh my god, ooh my god, ooh my god!  _ the blonde shrieked in a thick New Jersey accent. She sounded like every girl K had ever taken down in the backseat of a Town Car, before he decided that it was much less work and much better payoff to be the one taken down. 

Still, there was something to be said about the power of nostalgia. K grunted as he came, staining the inside of Jiang’s sweatpants. It served the fucker right. 

_ Take this dick, cheating sl—  _ K hit the  _ off  _ button on the remote and went limp, head hanging off the back of the couch and one hand still curled around his softening cock, covered in rapidly-cooling come. 

He fucking hated this quarantine bullshit. 

***

Not for the first time since he’d started on his  _ partial sobriety  _ journey (AKA, giving up everything but weed, booze, and cigarettes) K wished he had, like, an entire  _ truckload _ of blow to do. Enough coke to fuckin ski on. Colorado-style Black Diamond course,  _ Scarface _ shit. He could’ve dreamt it, too, woken up swimming in as much white powder as he could imagine, all-powerful, the DEA’s worst nightmare. 

Being cooped up in the apartment for days on end just made the cravings worse. It wasn’t anything like the withdrawals had been, weeks of pain and vomiting and weeping and mood swings and sleeping. It wasn’t anything like still using, popping pill after pill until his body didn’t know how to do anything without pharmaceutical encouragement. He’d had to relearn how to do practically everything, without the dreamt-up drugs that made it all easy. 

He still wasn’t the best at sleeping without a green or a blue to go down on. 

His bed felt spectacularly empty. 

It wasn’t even  _ his  _ bed, really. He was sacked out in one of the guest bedrooms, staying away from the master suite where he slept with Proko, and the rest of the boys when they were around. He didn’t want to fucking see Jiang. Didn’t want to like,  _ annoy  _ him, or whatever fucking bullshit. Jiang, adult and important, who was too fucking  _ mature  _ and  _ responsible  _ to deal with his trainwreck bullshit. Jiang, who only by coincidence was in town when the shelter-in-place order came down, who’d been delegated to fucking  _ babysit  _ him, like K was likely to pull some Typhoid Mary shit and infect the tristate area with the goddamn Rona. 

He stared at the wall,  _ not  _ pouting.  _ Not  _ sulking in the darkness, his phone turned off and chucked beneath the bed so he didn’t have to see the inevitable barrage of texts from Proko, Skov, Swan, all of them better off than he was— Proko on business and trapped with Katya, probably cuddling and watching  _ the Bachelor  _ in some nondescript hotel room, playing the couple behind closed doors as well as for the crowds and the TSA agents. Skov and Swan  _ together,  _ holed up in Swan’s London townhouse and probably fucking like rabbits, stoned and working from home and  _ together.  _

All K had was himself, the buzzing beneath his skin, and  _ Jiang,  _ who made it quite fucking clear he’d rather be  _ anywhere else. _

He wasn’t pouting. 

He wasn’t pouting, and he  _ couldn’t fucking sleep.  _

***

The guest bathroom was sterile and white, practically untouched by the decorator that he’d had hired back when he’d first bought the apartment, one of Katya’s friends who Proko’d followed around like a shadow, bitchy expression engaged and eyes hawkish as he critiqued all her decor suggestions. By the time they’d made it to the guest bathroom, K figured, the woman had had enough of Proko and his HGTV-informed design sensibilities. 

K could still hear Proko saying  _ shaker cabinets? How original.  _ He’d been speaking Russian, but the dry ridicule in his tone had been enough to make the woman burst into hysterical tears. 

The bathroom was uncomfortably nondescript, but Proko used its cabinets to store all the shit that K wouldn’t let him store in the master bathroom, girly bath bombs and salts and candles and shit.  _ Aromatherapy is  _ science, _ Joey,  _ Proko would start to preach whenever he came home with a brown paper Lush bag in tow, until K distracted him with blood or sex or money. Proko was an easy guy. Dream. Forgery. Whatever. 

Gritting his teeth, K flipped the switch for the drain plug and turned the water on, filling the tub with steaming hot water. As the mirrors fogged, K stripped off his ratty clothes, wincing as he peeled his sweats down and they stuck to him, disgusting. He couldn’t see his own reflection, and that made him a little easier, a little more relaxed in the shoulders, around his eyes. He didn’t want to see himself, the dark circles beneath his eyes or the more-pronounced ladder of his ribs, the pudge at the bottom of his belly where he’d been laying around not doing  _ shit.  _ Proko was the one who scheduled gym time, who took him through each exercise and helped him fucking  _ focus.  _

He dumped in an entire decorative jar of bath salts labeled  _ frankincense/lavender- sleep  _ in handwriting that looked identical to his own— a quirk he didn’t understand, particularly, but was distantly interesting, nonetheless. He remembered Old Proko’s handwriting— cramped cursive, nothing like New Proko’s copycat block-lettered script. 

Briefly, K considered texting Lynch from another burner phone (he was sure there were more scattered around the apartment) and asking if his hot-ass little brother’s handwriting was the same as his own. It would be entertaining to spill  _ that  _ jar of beans, at least, and he could probably leverage his way into several days worth of psychological fuckery from that jumping-off point. He could also probably text Big Brother Lynch and ask, but that would be more likely to end in actual bodily harm, either from Dicklan himself or one of his cronies. K had actual hitmen on his payroll (and in his bed) but Declan Lynch had the whole world in his pocket. 

The water was so hot that he felt like a steamed lobster sitting down in it, poaching like an egg, but then the scent of the essential oils and shit hit him and he went a little cloudy, a little more relaxed. Not  _ sleepy,  _ really, but almost a little numb in his skin, like he was turning soft on the outside. Gelatinous. 

He just wanted to fall asleep. To fall asleep and  _ stay  _ asleep, reaching that low-down space where he was in control. There was no goddamn virus there, or quarantine, or anything else. There was nothing but K, and what pleased K, a sprawling concrete jungle full of buzzy neon signs and cracked sidewalks and apartment windows open to let music spill out from them, house party trance and fuzzily-transmitted old samba on some half-forgotten radio station and sparkling, Autotuned Britney Spears from some teenage girl’s Hello Kitty boom box. The smell of summer in the city, overwhelming and comforting. All of it, just as real as it was when he was awake. 

All of it, and he was the king of everything. Not the annoyance, or the burden, or the washed-up ADHD-riddled former junkie. It didn’t matter. None of that mattered. 

None of it mattered, except that it  _ did,  _ because he  _ couldn’t sleep.  _ Couldn’t escape, couldn’t fall down and down and down until he was so deep that maybe he wouldn’t wake up for a few days, days spent not pacing and trying not to open his mouth and just  _ scream.  _

***

The water was getting cold. 

K was dozing, half-awake but still  _ not asleep.  _

Jiang was standing above him,  _ deeply  _ unimpressed with a towel slung over one shoulder. 

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.” He mumbled, and then was manhandling K out of the tub, holding him by the biceps and using his whole body the way he’d once used it to check the other teams’ players into the boards, one half of Aglionby’s two-headed monster. Poetry and violence in motion, more graceful on skates than he was off of them. “Such a goddamn drama queen.” 

K bared his teeth, twisted his whole body, slick and slippery, making them both fall. Jiang’s head connected with the cabinets— K’s ankle curled painfully. They hit the tile floor with a squeaking screech of a thud. Jiang swore— K was already punching, already swearing. Jiang took the first punch and then was in the game, too, the two of them scuffling and scrabbling like dogs, K naked and wet and Jiang blinking stars out of his beetle-black eyes. 

“Fuck you!” K spat, struggling, caught and held in a chokehold, Jiang’s legs wrapped around his own in an attempt to keep him  _ still.  _ “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—“ 

“Will you just fucking  _ stop?”  _ Jiang bellowed. “Just shut the fuck  _ up!”  _ One hand closed around K’s throat. It made him still, finally, panting and too-hot. Still he felt the buzzing beneath his skin. 

“There.” Jiang muttered, breath hot against K’s cheek.  _ “There.” _ It was supposed to be soothing— K didn’t want it to be effective. It was, though. He felt caught, held, but not trapped. More like when  _ all _ his boys had him, held him down, covered him up with their bodies. Cared for. He curled his hand around Jiang’s wrist, the one attached to the fingers curving around his throat still. 

Not pulling. Just holding. 

“Just…” Jiang breathed in deeply against his back, shirt soaked through. “Just be still.” He sounded a little nasally— K wondered if he’d broken something in the struggle. He imagined Jiang’s nose bloodied, imagined licking it up. This was good, too, though. Having to wonder. He nodded, groaning a little when Jiang tightened his grip a bit in response. Usually it was Swan holding him like this, or Proko— Jiang had never been  _ this  _ for him, but it felt as natural as if he’d been doing it forever. 

This was what he’d wanted— the choices taken away. Nothing in his mind but this. 

_ Fuck,  _ he was hard. 

“Gimme your hand.” Jiang ordered, and so K obeyed, giving him the hand that wasn’t holding Jiang’s wrist, still, rising automatically until he felt Jiang’s tongue, laving roughly over his fingers, his knuckles, pulling back until he could spit, thick and viscous, onto them. It was good. 

“Do it.” Jiang said, jostling him a little bit, getting his attention. Bringing him back out of his head. Putting him into his body with harsh care, vicious tenderness. 

K knew what he wanted; he knew what Jiang was asking him to do. 

The angle was awkward— the spread of his legs ungainly, the twist of his waist no doubt foolish-looking from a distance. It didn’t matter. Jiang wasn’t looking for him to be a beauty queen. He wasn’t trying to fuck Skov on a bed of silk and rose petals. He wanted K, wet and bruised and fish-belly pale beneath the fluorescent light overhead. 

It didn’t matter that K looked stupid, or that he made stupid noises when he fucked two spit-slick fingers into himself all at once, unable to reach anything  _ important.  _ Three fingers then, too-fast, and Jiang didn’t shake him when he hissed with the pain, only held him and waited. Waited him out. Waited until the clutch around K’s fingers wasn’t so tight, and he could spread them apart, making room. 

_ (Room for activities,  _ Proko would snicker if he was simultaneously present and could hear K’s thoughts, because he was a dumb fuck with a love for Will Ferrell movies.) 

“Okay.” Jiang said finally, and maneuvered until he had his sweatpants around his thighs, until he could run a spit-slick hand over his cock and ease just the head inside, K squirming and their limbs entangled. “Shh.” He said, and K realized he was making a keening noise low down in his chest, hurt-sounding. “Shh.” 

K felt drugged; he felt slow and syrupy-stupid, like Jiang’s cock was so much bigger than he knew, intellectually, that it was. It was barely inside him, and still he felt full-up, heavy, blinking, trying not to hiccup an overwhelmed sob each time Jiang stirred his hips, thrust shallowly up and  _ in.  _

“Just let me take care of you.” Jiang whispered, and smeared a messy kiss against his cheek. K nodded again, mindless. Everything was so quiet. Jiang fucked him shallow and slow and K just had to take it, eyes closing, there in the stillness of the sterile white guest bathroom in his otherwise-empty apartment. 

(He never had done very well on his own.) 

He came with Jiang’s right hand around his throat and his left around his cock— with Jiang crooning  _ shhhh  _ noises in his ear, like they had to be quiet so as not to be overheard when there was no one there to overhear. Like it was a secret, just the two of them. 

Jiang rearranged the noodle-limp mess of his limbs until K was on his side on the warm spot of tile where Jiang had formerly lain, until one of his knees was pushed up nearly to his chin so Jiang could fuck into him again, could fuck him harder and faster as he chased down his own orgasm, into where K felt tender and soft and raw. “Just let me.” Jiang said, grunting with the effort, and K blinked blearily up at him, at the dried blood around his nose and the beginnings of two black bruises beneath his coal-black eyes. Jiang swore when he smiled, small and sleepy— he reached up with one shaking hand to brush an errant lock of hair away from K’s eyes and then he came, curling around his middle like it hurt. 

“Fuck.” Jiang mumbled into K’s ribs, expressive and exhausted. 

K did not respond, his eyes closing. He felt like he could sleep for days, here on the porcelain-tiled floor. 

***

“But you’re okay?” Proko asked again, missish and fussy on the screen of K’s phone, FaceTiming from his hotel room. In the background, Katya was plucking her eyebrows at the vanity. They were playing some shitty pop song. 

“I’m fine,  _ Baba.”  _ K snapped, rolling his eyes, feigning annoyance but pleased inside, still in bed, bundled up in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Jiang was sitting up, typing again, similarly attired, one hand on the keys and the other tangled up in K’s hair. 

“Okay, okay!” Proko surrendered, and then gave a flirtatious sort of look, biting down on his lower lip. K rolled his eyes again. 

“Take care of yourself, Romeo.” He said, hanging up unceremoniously. 

“Hungry?” Jiang asked, fingernails scratching at K’s scalp. 

K rolled until he could press his face into the cut of Jiang’s hip, nosing between his sweatpants and shirt.  _ “Starving.” _ He replied, and bit down on the skin there, grinning. 

***

_ i’ll be stuck fixated on one star  _

_ when the world is crashing down.  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com
> 
> follow me on twitter @ twitter.com/brophigenia
> 
> come through and send asks to me, questions and headcanons and requests all welcome!


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